


Heatwave

by lurrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Figging, M/M, Paddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames' increasingly tenuous excuses for kinky sex might have reached their limit, but Arthur lets himself get figged anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heatwave

Arthur always takes Sundays off for himself – he doesn’t go to the gym, doesn’t do surveillance if he can help it. He spends the day sprawled around the house, reading or watching shitty action movies.

And more recently, he's been spending the day having more and more inventive sex with Eames.

"What if you're someday kidnapped by extremely Victorian perverts?" Eames asks earnestly that morning in bed. "We should make sure you can withstand their torturous ways."

Arthur looks up from his book and quirks an eyebrow. "That's the most tenuous excuse for sex you've come up with yet."

He pauses. "Unless you're planning on kidnapping me soon."

Eames grins lecherously. “I’ve already got you right here in my bed. You’re mine already.”  

He waits, and Arthur’s eyes flicker up. But then his lashes fall, sweet and acquiescent even though a small smirk is tugging at his lips.

“So it’s going to be like that, is it?” Arthur’s trying for disinterested but he hits amused instead.

“So it’s going to be like that,  _sir_ ,” Eames corrects. “I’m off to the grocery store. Don’t go anywhere,”

-

Eames is whistling when he steps back into the bedroom. Arthur’s still on the bed, leaning against a mountain of pillows reading, and he looks up. His expression is only mildly curious.

In one hand Eames is holding a small bowl of water, and the other has a ginger root. It’s long, peeled and notched at the end, and incredibly pungent. Arthur can smell it from the bed as he lays down a bookmark and puts his book away on the nightstand.

“It’s got a string on it,” Arthur says, but that smile is there just the same, lurking in the corners of his mouth. The scent of it is sharp, clean. It makes him think of soups, of lentil curry in Pakistan. Ginger beer in the Caribbean.

What it doesn’t make him think of is sex.

“Wouldn’t want it to get lost up there,” Eames says easily and he places the bowl of water near to the stack of books on the night table. “Anyway, let’s see you get naked.”

Arthur sighs and shuffles to the side of their bed, wriggling out of his boxers and dropping them to the floor.

“Up,” Eames says, and Arthur knows the routine, arranges himself on his elbows and knees on the bed, ass up. He watches Eames dip the root into the water and then walk out of his range of vision.

Arthur can feel himself redden when Eames slowly parts his cheeks, thumb running down the cleft of his ass. Eames likes to take his time, likes to _look_  and it always makes him feel a tiny bit vulnerable when he's like this. Open and on display.

Eames presses the blunt tip of the ginger against Arthur’s hole and pushes, slow.

“Lube keeps it from working right,” he says apologetically. It’s tapered at the tip, like a plug, and the water makes it slick enough that the widest part only burns like a good stretch before his ass clenches around the narrowed, notched ring at the base. A smooth circle flares, pressing from the outside.

Arthur shifts his hips tentatively.

“How is it?” Eames asks, and runs large hand down Arthur’s flank. The touch makes his muscles tighten, goosebumps appear.

“It’s cold. Stiff.” Arthur was expecting something a little more dramatic, and he’s disappointed. It just feels hard.

“Just wait,” Eames says and his hands settle on Arthur’s hips. He watches as Arthur clenches and unclenches, his ass getting used to the intrusion. Arthur wonders how long this is going to take, if it’ll work at all.

“Could I maybe lie do—ah!” A little tremor runs down his spine. “It’s warming up.”

It’s warm, and it feels good, like being stretched just a little too wide. Arthur lets his eyes close and he can feel his body tingle with it

“Mmm, Eames,” Arthur says, tongue wrapping around syllables, “I can. I can see the appeal.”

It’s like being fucked but it isn’t. There’s no motion, just a dull, comforting ache in the burn, pressing in from the outside of his hole to the inside of his ass. He rocks back into it anyway and feels Eames press his thumb against the base, driving it in and out in tiny increments as he moves.

“Ah, Eames,” he says, mouth open and panting. The warmth is moving up his spine and he can feel sweat breaking out at his temples, the chill of the air blown by the room’s fan a delicious contrast. “Ah, ah, ah,” he breathes, his body changing with no input from himself.

It’s like that for a minute, maybe two, Arthur almost writhing with how good it feels, how hard his dick is getting. But it’s not a slow and easy transition from warm to incredible burn, it’s a snap. A second from being hazy and soft to incredibly sharp and dire, a heat that knocks everything out of his head, like how Eames hands are back to being curled around his hips.

Arthur’s hips jerk and his spine dips in a long arch and he’s squeezing, clenching around the thing inside him because jesus, it’s hot, it’s nothing he’s felt before.

“Clenching is only going to make it worse, love,” he hears Eames say, but any other words are blocked out by the blood roaring in his ears – and that’s hot too, everything is hot but his ass, it’s burning, volcanic, shooting heat up into his system and he feels wild and like he’s skirting past something dangerous, like fire.

He’s moving so much that Eames grabs on tightly with wide fingers, pressing the open palm of his right hand on Arthur’s back and shoving him into the mattress. He’s pinned, immobile and forced to know nothing but the heat, mind rolling into itself and forgetting everything else.

Arthur whines and fights the hold anyway, his body too hyped to not respond, but Eames just holds on, makes him take it. When he closes his eyes it’s bright behind his eyelids, flashes of red as the heat pulses through him in an unrelenting press of pain that’s just barely edged with lust.

His lower back is damp with sweat, the flush on the back of his neck dripping down between his shoulders. Arthur is incoherent with it now, overwhelmed and burning, “ _please, please, please_ ” a mantra behind clenched teeth. Please don’t let it blister, please let it be over, please don’t stop.

“How about we make it a little more interesting?” Eames says, voice cutting through the raw pain and the way it makes Arthur _want_.

Arthur shuts his eyes and groans, head lolling forward onto the bed as his body gives in, stays still without the press of Eames’ weight. “Eames,” he says again, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying, really. He can’t think beyond the burning, the incendiary feelings in his body, and the burn only gets worse as he tries to relax, tries to fight the need to curl up and hide. It’s so much more than anything –

The paddle makes the loudest noise Arthur’s heard all day, but the yelp he makes is almost as loud. His whole body tenses with the impact, his ass squeezing around the root and bringing another wave of heat. His toes curl.

Eames swings again and Arthur desperately tries to stay loose, to stay relaxed, but the paddle hurts, his whole ass a giant hot ache.

The paddle is wide, covered in leather on one side, and is supposed to be at Eames’ flat.

“Arthur?” Eames asks from behind him, touching his ankle softly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh please,” he says but he doesn’t know what he’s asking.

Eames takes that as invitation enough to crack again, and again. Ten solid blows land, enough time in between to force Arthur to decide: the worsened sting of the paddle if he's relaxed or the burst of heat if he tightens.

Arthur’s voice hitches around vowel sounds, broken noises spilling out of him.

“Arthur are you…are you crying?” Eames drops the paddle with a clatter and the bed dips with his weight.

“It’s okay,” Eames says, making shushing noises and stroking his sweating back. “It’s okay, just let me—“

Arthur twists around his glare kills the words Eames was going to say.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare stop,” Arthur says, voice rough like he’s been screaming, and he doesn’t really know that he hasn’t been.

Eames’ face spreads into a filthy grin, and his fingers rake through Arthur's hair. “Ten more then?”

Arthur’s eyes are already closed again, lashes damp, but he nods and Eames scrambles off the bed.

Arthur decides in the haze of burning, in the hot pain that’s killing him slowly, to take the new heat of the paddle and he works to keep himself relaxed, loose as Eames swings.

It’s hard to not clench up immediately, to quell that instinct, but there’s a reason Eames doesn’t need to tie him up anymore. He lets go after hit six, the burn (and he must have blisters, his skin must be split open and scorched) taking over and burning out his brain til he can’t even say Eames’ name, just grunts and whines.

Eames gives him a few moments between hit ten and easing the ginger out of his hole, but Arthur hisses anyway, clenches around nothing. It takes the immediacy, the dire panicking burn off, but the heat isn’t gone instantly.

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says and his thumb traces around his asshole, spread open with his other hand. “You’re so red, so hot and open for me.” The skin is smooth under his finger and Arthur shivers, shuddering. “Are you ready for me to fuck you now?”

Arthur says something that is probably a yes, so Eames rolls him over to his back and grabs a condom and flips Arthur onto his back.

“Look at you,” Eames says and wraps a hand around Arthur’s cock, still hard and slick with precome. “You’re soaking wet, sweetheart.”

Arthur moans and thrusts up, the warm swirls of pleasure rolling up his tailbone and into his body intoxicating enough that he wants Eames inside, fucking him through it. “C’mon,” he says and it’s slurred.

“Impatient,” Eames says, but his voice has a tinge of awe that’s always there when Arthur takes, and takes, and takes for him. He lines up his rubbered cock, nudging the head against the hole and Arthur jerks, and then groans.

“You’re so hot for me, your little hole is burning up for me.” And then he pushes inside, slick from the condom and Arthur’s laxness easing the way.

Arthur’s sucking in air like he’s had the wind knocked from his chest, his knees pulled up, and he smiles almost disconcertingly at Eames as he thrusts in, slow and careful.

“Oh, oh fuck, Arthur,” Eames says and leans over, peppering Arthur’s collarbones with kisses, braced against the bed for better leverage. “God you’re so fucking. Oh Christ you’re hot,” he says and rocks in, in, strong but not violent with it, until Arthur is moaning again.

It’s so fucking good, the burn from the ginger curling around the burn of Eames’ cock, the friction and the heat and the languid fluidity of Arthur’s burned out body. Arthur can only hum in response, half heartedly angling his hips to meet Eames as he fucks into him deep and slow and smooth.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps out when he finally gains words again, “I need to.”

“I know, I know,” Eames says, sounding almost as breathless. He bites tenderly at Arthur’s neck and wraps a fist around Arthur’s cock and strokes in time until everything finally bursts free. Arthur’s chest hurts through the orgasm, his body feeling fever bright and the pleasure deadly sharp like the scent of fresh ginger. He’s rocking up, chest to chest with Eames as he wraps his arms around him, shuddering through it because it goes on, and on, the pressure of the heat pushing everything out of Arthur’s body and replacing it with nothing but hot sparks of pleasure.

He’s panting open mouthed against Eames’ skin as Eames rocks into his own orgasm but Arthur barely registers it, lets Eames push him back against the bed in a sprawl of limbs.

“My little slut,” Eames says fondly, running a hand down Arthur’s face as he curls up. Arthur bats weakly at him but smiles, spent and sated. Eames kisses his temple.


End file.
